


Interruptions

by JaguarCello



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Canon Divergance, Drug Use, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:26:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaguarCello/pseuds/JaguarCello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even Sherlock Holmes can't stay hidden for long; the ghosts of his past (and his big brother) will show up eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interruptions

It was dark outside, on the streets of whatever tiny village he’d found himself in, but the curtains were undrawn, and rain was lashing against the paving-stones in the street outside. The wind, too, was up, howling in the fireplace, and whistling through the open window to tear at the papers scattered around the room, carrying with it autumn leaves, skittering across the floor. Sherlock was slumped backwards on the sofa, fingers steepled against his chin. He was wearing his coat, with the collar turned up, but he’d taken his socks off, and his long toes were just touching the wall behind him, and his legs were twitching manically.  

He sat up, twisted round, as if he’d heard something in the street outside, and stuck his head out of the window. “Mycroft,” he half-snarled, and threw himself back onto the sofa. The sound of fumbling with a lock, and then muffled swearing, dragged him to the front door, where his brother stood.

 “Sherlock,” Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow at the roses round the door, and then he looked back at the lock. “I see you’ve made some – alterations, to the safety of this place? You don’t trust me, then?”

 Sherlock smirked, and then shook his head, slightly too many times. “We’ve known each other far too long for trust to enter into the equation,” and he raked a hand through his hair. It was growing longer now, the curls looser, and he hated it. “Come in – they say that black is slimming, don’t they? But even the darkness can’t hide your _bulk_ ,” and he smiled politely at Mycroft before stepping inside.

 “You can make your own coffee. Or tea – I suppose you’re still interested in perpetuating stereotypes about your nationality.” He waved a hand towards the tiny kitchen, and went back to the sofa, flicking idly through a week-old newspaper, and then drumming on his knees until Mycroft came through with two mugs.

 “John tried to find you, you know. Well, I’m sure you know that. He – he seems convinced of your innocence, which might be dangerous for him. If he keeps telling anyone who will listen that he’ll “always believe in you,” then his loyalties, his sentiment– “ Mycroft pulled a slight face, but that might have been down to the kitten mug he was holding – “then any friends of Moriarty, anyone with the slightest bit of brain – “

 Sherlock broke in. “He’s in danger, because he’s insisting that I’m not a fraud, and that Moriarty was real – I’m supposing you picked up on that? “Reichenbach” and Richard Brook? God, how do people not notice these things? I saw him die, though. I saw him put the gun in his mouth, saw his brains - not so remarkable after all, really. Just the same as any other, to look at. I wonder what my mind looks like. They pickled Charles Babbage's brain, you know," and Mycroft's eyes flickered across Sherlock's face, seeing everything, but he said nothing. Sherlock went on. "But – why have you come to me, now? I keep bees, actually. It’s quite fascinating – the way the workers and the drones obey the queen without thought or – “

 “Thank you, I’m quite aware of your opinion on my job. But the workers can’t be ignored, and Lestrade wants to believe in you, too. He’s been spending a lot of time with John, actually. Mainly in the pub  - his wife’s sleeping with that gym teacher again, and he doesn’t want to go home and see the disappointment in her eyes at his lack of muscle mass.” He smiled, as if in pain.

“What do you _want_ , Mycroft? Has there been another death in the family? I mean, they just did have mine, so you’d have thought that the jackals could settle. Or is this about John? Is Moriarty’s ghost too vicious for your precious spies? I thought I saw him, the other day. In the graveyard - but then, where else would he be?” He leaned forwards to pick up the other mug – chipped from where he’d thrown it at the wall the other week – and grimaced. “You make bad tea on purpose, don’t you?”

“You know more about manipulation than I do, dear brother,” Mycroft told him, and he took a demure sip from his own mug. Sherlock snorted. 

 “Right, so if I tell the world that the lie about me being a liar was indeed the lie that some of them suspect, and that in fact I am a lovely person who only lies when it suits me – “ Mycroft rolled his eyes, and Sherlock frowned, before carrying on – “A person who never lies, a paragon of virtue, peace and love…”

 “You’re using again,” Mycroft said, looking down at his own fingernails. “You’re smoking – that much is clear from the fog in here, so you don’t have to bother keeping the window open. But there’s more. You sound jumbled, you sound like your brain is working far better and far faster than your mouth can keep up with. And you left it out again,” and he pointed at the wooden box above the television, and Sherlock scowled.

 “I can do whatever I like. Now I’m not working crime scenes, I don’t have Lestrade looking over my shoulder. I have no reason to be sober, since I’m bored, and I can’t work crime scenes. I only get away with living here – I was on the first page of the Sun, for God’s sake – because the people here are mostly blind, and all stupid.” He paused, and rolled his shoulders backwards. “And I don’t have John,” he admitted, and then curled up on the chair in a sulk.

 “Sherlock Holmes, sit up,” his brother told him sternly, in a terrifyingly accurate impression of their mother, and so Sherlock did. “You will stop using – I didn’t know one could even _get_ cocaine in Dorset hamlets – and you will start showering, eating properly and leaving the house from time to time. You will return home – I can set it up for you, but you need to be there to protect John. He – he told me once that he hated you, but I think he can hate and love at the same time. When it comes to you, at any rate.”

 Sherlock narrowed his eyes like a cat, and took another sip-grimace from the mug. “You expect me to just slip back into my old life, seamlessly, and expect to be able to go back to what I used to do? You think the public would want me back, after mauling me in the morning papers and making me into a sham on the message boards? You think Mrs. Hudson and – “ and he took another sip – “ and John would want me?” He looked away, out across the street, where a huge mound of leaves had been piled up for the bonfire. “It’s been a long time. Think of what Molly had to do to get me here - ”

 Mycroft rolled his eyes again, and handed him a cigarette. “Appealing to my sense of right and wrong? The great detective, making an error as elementary as that? But as for your old life, you think I couldn’t do it, don’t you? Sherlock, most of my job is making things that never happen a part of history, or erasing chapters from that history. For once in your life, stop overthinking. You’ve lost weight, again. You look awful. You _smell_ awful, and this place is in a worse state than Baker Street. I’ll be in the car,” and he swept out of the room.

 “Idiot,” muttered Sherlock, but he stood, and reached out to take his skull – “Alas, poor research fellow,” he told it, but then replaced it on the shelf, and shoved the door open.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> part one of many


End file.
